


close the curtains (but just a little)

by anglaland



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Fingering, Fluff, FrUK Week 2018, Kitchen Sex, PWP, bad angles for piv but they do it anyway, morning after sex, suspicious baguettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 01:08:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15425667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anglaland/pseuds/anglaland
Summary: His fingers come down to thumb at her panties, and she lets him slip them off easily from under her skirt. “You’re too dressed,” he mumbles against her neck, as she loosely entwines her arms around him.“You’re not dressed at all,” England retorts in return.





	close the curtains (but just a little)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for @frukweek on tumblr, 2018. Day 3: Morning After Sex

“We’re out of bread,” announces France, and England starts so violently she nearly spills tea all over herself.

“When did you come down?” she gasps, adrenaline still pumping through her. She puts her tea down quickly, glancing at the clock—11:23 am. On a Sunday. It’s absolutely outrageous, and England draws herself up to explain just that, when France cuts her off.

“Hmm...eight minutes ago? I heard another _enthralling_ story about a lost cow in your farmlands.” France says. “Interesting enough to captivate the entire country herself.” He winks at her, teasing (and clearly in a good mood) and England’s breath seizes in her chest.

“I was not captivated,” she says, which comes out as both huffed and choked on. “I was giving due respect and attention to my newsreaders, who wake up early on a Sunday morning to do proper work. Not that you’d know anything about that.”

“Of course,” France agrees amicably, and England squints at him from where she’s sitting. “I suppose I’ll just go back to bed then…”

“Don’t you dare,” England snaps, and France laughs, returning to the kitchen.

The table she’s sitting at separates the two of them, with her dining room opening up to the cozy kitchen France is cooking in. A small television sits to her left, blaring the, yes, enthralling news of her northern countryside. Morning (soon to be afternoon!) light cuts around her to illuminate her kitchen and its chef.

For some time, they sit in silence, with England watching France as he bustles around her kitchen, taking out ingredients she didn’t recall buying. _We’re out of bread_ , but it’s her house.

She takes a sip of her tea. When did he start staying over so often?

Cutting the idea and the subsequent train of thought away, England picks up her mug and makes her way around the table into the kitchen. “You are not allowed in,” France says immediately, trying to her shoo her away.

“It’s _my_ kitchen,” England protests, swatting his hand away. “And don’t tie yourself up in knots, I’ll only watch.”

France stops, eyes narrowing. “I do not trust you,” he says finally. Walking back to the stove, he points to the empty counter next to it. “Stay here,” he points. “And do not touch a thing.”

Rolling her eyes, England acquiesces. “I’m not a child,” she grumbles, taking her designated place.

“ _Non_ , you are worse than one,” France mutters, and England pretends she doesn’t hear him.

Moving into the kitchen does nothing to distract her previous thoughts. Up close, she’s confronted with the fact that she finds him _so very attractive_ (which is a step up from her previous denial that fooled no one, least of all herself). England can see he hasn’t shaved, his carefully maintained scruff a tad bit more untidy than he typically allows. No doubt the reason he’s decided to utilize the existing ingredients in the kitchen, rather than venture out to the shops in town. Unbidden, her hand reaches out to smooth the hairs, and France’s eyes snap to her in an in instant.

Instinctively, she inhales sharply. “Why are you cluttering up my bathroom with hair product if this is the result?” she quips quickly, trying to play it off.

France’s eyes soften at the corner, and England knows she isn’t fooling him for a second. Treacherously, she also thinks that this is exactly what she wanted. “You’ve caught me,” he says, switching the stove off. One of France’s hands comes to rest at her hips, and he presses against her, cornering her with his body. They share a look (and maybe, this time they won’t deny the fond smiles pulling at both of their lips). He leans close to her, a breath away from her lips.  “I hope that one night you’ll trip and snap your neck in the darkness, and then I can have my terrible, terrible, way with you.”

“I’ve invited a necrophiliac into my home,” England grouses, but kisses him anyway. They move against each other languidly, taking their time. England peels away the button-up shirt he’s wearing, snaking her hands down his arms as she does so. France hums against her lips, and she tilts her head to the side, grumbling as he teases her with would-be kisses before pulling away. “Don’t get cheeky,” she huffs, threading her fingers through his hair to hold him in place for a deeper kiss.

She can feel his persistent smile on his lips, even as she does her best to kiss him into compliance.  When she finally succumbs to the need of air, his amusement returns. “I wouldn’t dare,” says France, with mock innocence. He’s well practiced enough at this to cut off her next remark with another easy press of his mouth.

His fingers come down to thumb at her panties, and she lets him slip them off easily from under her skirt. “You’re too dressed,” he mumbles against her neck, as she loosely entwines her arms around him.

“You’re not dressed at all,” England retorts in return. She moves to slip his boxers off but he grabs both her wrists, pinning them against the counter. “Wh—let go, you oaf,” she protests, tugging, but France persists.

“Patience,” he says, infuriatingly, and England yanks one of her hands to whack him over the head (but she lets him take her hands back into his grasp after).

“Well then, hurry on with it,” she sniffs, affecting a posh composure. It cracks soon enough as France runs two fingers along her slit, coming up to thumb at her clit. “That’s not what I meant,” she says, her tone more breathy than cross.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” France says blandly, slipping two digits inside of her. She exhales slowly, leaning forward to rest her head in the crook of France’s neck. The angle is sort of uncomfortable, her spine curved forward against the stone of the counter top. It’s easy enough to forget once France begins to languidly move his fingers.

He establishes a good rhythm soon enough, but England needs more. “Hurry up and fucking shag me!” she demands, even as her hips move in concert with his hand. He lets go of her wrists to instead unbutton the front of her dress, her hands in turn coming to grip at his shoulders.

“After two millennia, you still have no concept of enjoyment, _Angleterre_ ,” France complains sadly, slipping a third finger in. England’s grasp on him tightens as she tries to physically meld their bodies together.

“I’ll turn to dust here waiting for you,” she scowls, reclining to let him palm at her breasts. His fingers curve under one, and England can’t stop the light gasps that escape her. She instead reaches down to pull France’s cock out, but she’s annoyingly stopped. After a few futile tries, she abandons the effort, content to let him roll her nipples between one set of fingers and curl the other set inside of her.

When her orgasm rolls through her, she’s practically rocking against him, undoubtedly keening out loud. He slowly works her through it, swallowing a few of her moans as he steals of few kisses. England slowly relaxes, his hand supporting her chin. As he begins to pull away, she grabs him, keeping him in place. “You aren’t going anywhere,” she threatens, “I’m not leaving this kitchen until you’ve fucked me properly.”

France blinks at her for a second, before laughing. “Do you ever imagine _not_ having your way?”

“Never,” she says stubbornly. “I’ve long wisened up to your selfless lover antics, and I won’t be victim to it any longer.”

“That’s rather selfish of you, isn’t it, _cherié_?” He says, finally letting her tug his boxers off. England doesn’t hesitate before reaching straight for his member, fingers loosely circling around it as she teases him to hardness.

“Oh, absolutely,” she replies. “You’d do well to accept defeat now.”

France intercepts her hand on his cock, residual wetness on his helping to ease her stroking. She lifts his hand off in a few moments, raising an eyebrow in challenge, and he eases off, hands raised in mock surrender. “An armistice, for now,” he purrs, and England resists the urge to roll her eyes.

Soon enough she’s begun to reduce him to the state he’d previously brought her to, and England enjoys the sight of him falling apart in front of her. His hair is loose from the ponytail he tied up to cook, and England threads her fingers through the strands to remove it completely. Her other hand strokes him in earnest, twisting her wrist as she reaches the base and occasionally scraping her nail over the slit.

Grasping her gently by the neck, France tilts her face up to kiss her again, and this time they’re sloppily placed, their mouths slipping apart as they both pant from arousal. England opens her legs and finally, _finally_ , guides his member inside of her.

They both exhale as France slowly pushes inside her. He lifts her dress up properly to scrunch up at her waist, and then grabs the back of her thighs to angle her so that he can properly thrust inside. England watches as his eyes flutter closed as he settles in her to the hilt.

She holds him in place for a few seconds, enjoying the comfortable, familiar feeling of being stretched around his cock. France’s skin is warm and flush against her, and although she trembles in place at the need for him to _move_ , she enjoys seeing him strain to remain still. When he breathes a, “ _S'il te plait, Angleterre_ ,” she finally assents, and he thrusts upwards in a rolling motion.

The movement steals a drawn-out moan from her, petering into short punctuated “ _Ah-ah-ah_ !” breaths as he fucks her, the pace a change from his indolent morning nature. He’s supporting nearly her entire weight as he lifts and angles her just so, thrusting from a different direction every few seconds. England’s arms are wrapped tight around his back, no doubt leaving scratch marks as France snaps his hips up at her. “Oh, right there, please just like that!” she exclaims as one of his thrusts aligns _so perfectly._ Exasperated, she can feel his grin against her earlobe as he complies with a cheeky _oui, oui_.

France nearly comes first, pace becoming just a tad slower (because even on the brink of orgasm, he wouldn’t compromise his lover). “Just come,” she moans out, but reaches one of her hands down to rub at her clit, trying to bring herself to the edge as well.

Not long after, she breathlessly tells him that she’s close. “ _Dieu_ ,” he groans, picking up speed, pace becoming erratic. After a few moments, he drops one of her legs to wrap his arm tightly around her, holding her close as he first stills inside her, and then lazily thrusts his way through the rest of his orgasm. England lets go of her bruising grip and combs her fingers through France’s hair as he finishes, her other hand still pressing insistently at her clit. In another few seconds, she topples over the edge too, tightening around France and eliciting another deep groan from him.

They stay pressed against each other for a few minutes, catching their breath and enjoying the after sex glow. “Now I have to get dressed again,” England laments, not even bothering to look down at her dress to assess the tragic state of affairs.

“Ah, you should have slept in then,” France says, and lets her swat him over the head again.

**Author's Note:**

> “Where in the fuck did you manage to find _baguettes_ in this town?!”
> 
> France takes a long drag from his cigarette. “I asked your newscasters—who better to know every secret of sleepy English villages?” England splutters, scandalized and stops muttering vague curses under her breath long enough to snatch a piece. 
> 
> (She never finds the offending shop, and yes, she asks the newscasters. She tries to strangle the knowledge out of France, but he only laughs and pulls her into bed, again).


End file.
